Heaven Forbid
by empathapathique
Summary: She held the Muggle pregnancy test limply in her hands, and the red plus sign glared at Draco dauntingly, his very own monster come to wreak havoc in his world. D/Hr
1. Part 1

**Title:** Heaven Forbid 1/3

**Author:** Empath Apathique

**Rating:** R/NC-17

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, Gabriel Mann and his song "Lighted Up," or any other pop culture reference used in the story.

**Warnings:** Beyond the slight smut, be forewarned that this story contains troubled thoughts concerning the pro-choice/pro-life debate. The thoughts in the story may or may not mirror my own thoughts on the issue; that is my business and no one else's. If these things bother you, turn away here.

**Summary:** She held the Muggle pregnancy test limply in her hands, and the red plus sign glared at Draco dauntingly, his very own monster come to wreak havoc in his world. D/Hr

**Notes:** Thanks to the usual suspects for all of their help in putting this together. It was a long hard editing process, but I couldn't have done it without you guys. And to bambu345 for the quick read that saved my life.

Written for the fall dmhgficexchange on LJ. It's one of my favorite stories. I hope everyone enjoys.

-- -- -- -- -- --

_Sometimes love looks good in gray_

Lighted Up, Gabriel Mann

**I.**

_They say there is_

_A still pool even in the middle of _

_The rushing whirlpool—_

_Why is there none in the whirlpool_

_Of my love? _

Anonymous, Kokinshū

-- -- -- -- -- --

_Then, 4:35 AM_

The end began with a question:

"Do you love me?"

She was awake. He could feel the quickening of her breath against his naked chest, her lashes brushing against his skin as she closed her eyes.

"Granger," he said softly. "Hermione." He threaded his fingers in her thick hair, grazing her scalp soothingly with his nails. He repeated his question. "Do you love me?"

"You want a lot of things," she said.

She was wrong. "I want everything."

She raised her head, and he could see the flickering light of the candle reflected in the glassy sheen of her eyes. "It's not fair for me to give you everything," she told him.

He shook his head sadly, using his grip on her hair to gently pull her face to his. "You have everything I want."

"I don't know if I have it to give," she said, and all he could think was that she didn't want to give it to him.

He didn't say that. He knew better than to ruin their night with words that foreshadowed the end. He'd done enough to that extent already. Salty tears fell from her eyes and onto his cheeks.

He kissed her to sleep.

-- -- -- -- -- --

_Now_

Two months later, Draco found himself preoccupied with that moment, the tiny expanse of time between the second when the question had popped into his head, and the unconscious decision to allow the words to leave his lips. The pounding on the bathroom door added a steady rhythm to his thoughts, and he asked himself for the millionth time why he'd said it, why he hadn't stopped himself. He could hear Seamus Finnegan's words beyond the door, muffled and angry. Next to him, she sobbed, and his heart thudded noisily in his chest at the pained sounds.

He looked at her. She was small and afraid, a child frightened at the prospect of a monster or a ghost in the closet or beneath the bed, come to snatch her from her home and her life forever. She held the Muggle pregnancy test limply in her hands, and the red plus sign glared at Draco dauntingly, his very own monster come to wreak havoc in his world. It threatened to make him ill from the sheer enormity it entailed, nearly in the same way his companion had been for the past four weeks.

He should have noticed. He hadn't.

He'd been so preoccupied with counting the cracks on his ceiling and telling himself that it was okay that she was gone that he hadn't been paying attention. The truth was that it _wasn't_ okay, and he hadn't been paying attention because he'd been avoiding her, because seeing her only made something in his chest ache. But they both worked on the same floor of the Ministry: she in the Department for Muggle Relations and he in Magical Law Enforcement, a fact which made avoiding her a serious issue. However, Draco was in a position in which it was easy to make up bullshit excuses to stay out of the office. And he did—frequently; he brought his work home with him and sometimes worked late into the night in order to keep up with his job and avoid her delicate face.

It didn't bother him, not really. His pride had deserted him sometime around when Hermione had, and he no longer marveled at the measures that he took to keep her out of his sight. Some nights, when he sat in pubs drinking Firewhisky and reading over reports from work, he thought of her. No matter how great the tired ache in his bones became, Draco still found himself weighed down by her pressing absence in his mind. He had to consciously remind himself that he didn't need her.

If he was drunk enough, he told that to the girls he went home with, too.

It had only happened once or twice, on Friday nights when the prospect of a lonely weekend prompted him to drink far too much to remain rational. Intoxication was never the way to enter a sexual encounter. The alcohol dulled his senses significantly; however, he was always coherent enough to remind himself that those two women weren't Hermione, which immediately made him regret each encounter.

But they were necessary, almost. He would never be able to get on with his life if he didn't throw himself back out into the world, and with Granger working only a few doors away, she was far too large a presence in his life for him to do so at a leisurely pace. Blaise had told him to "fuck" her away, but the momentary reprieve had hardly been worth the disgust that had immediately followed the encounters. However, Draco had made a habit of reminding himself of his two sordid trysts whenever he saw his former lover—in the halls or by the loo—telling himself that they were the _best_ he ever had, because they were helping him to get over _her_.

He reminded himself of this often; she was just so bloody _close_.

Once upon the time, her nearness to him had been convenient. He'd been able to snatch her away for a quick lunch or a carnal rendezvous on her desk whenever he'd pleased, delighting in her playful primness and the pleasure he derived from her amusing presence.

How many times had he taken her on her desk—in this restroom? It was a single stall, nicely equipped for clandestine encounters in the middle of the workday. He'd thought they were safe during all of those times, but apparently he'd been wrong—so wrong. He wondered how many times he'd made love to her without the protection of a contraceptive charm.

He asked her, "How did this happen?"

She made a sound akin to a hiccup. The banging stopped.

"How?" he said. There was an unexpected _Alohomora_ from the other side of the door, but the complex locking charm he'd placed on the entry easily absorbed the spell. A stronger spell was fired, and Draco's head whipped in the direction of the door. He placed his hand against the heavy wood, directly feeding the charm magic to prevent it from being broken. There was a muttered curse from the other side, soon followed by the retreating footsteps of the person who'd previously been so bent on getting into the loo.

He looked at her then, face taught with strain. "_How?_"

"I-I don't know," she stammered. "I thought we were okay, but—"

"You don't _think_ about things like this, Granger. You _know_."

She glared at him. Hermione Granger couldn't stand to be patronized by anyone, least of all him. "I'm not some well-used hussy who knows all the different pills and potions to take to prevent this from happening, Draco."

He didn't want her to be angry. He didn't want things to be like this at all. His mind once again went back to the last night she'd shared his bed, to the moment—the question—that had changed it all.

"I don't know what happened," she said quietly. "I thought I was doing it right—"

"I told you those Muggle methods weren't safe."

"Yes," she conceded, "but what was I supposed to _do_, Draco? The potions were making me sick."

He shook his head, dissatisfied with her excuses and the turmoil she brought into his life. "There were other ways."

"They weren't as effective. The ring is 99.9%—"

"What the hell does that matter _now_, Granger?" he snapped.

"It doesn't," she said. "It doesn't matter at all." She looked at him, eyes wide and afraid and full of tears. "I'm pregnant." She began to cry again.

He closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. He couldn't stand her tears, and he tentatively took one of her hands in his. He wondered if this was okay. "Please don't cry."

"What am I supposed to _do_?" she said. "I'm _pregnant_. What am I going to do?"

"It isn't as if you've done this all by yourself, Granger." He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

She didn't appreciate the gesture. She snatched her hand away from him and glared at him fiercely. "It's _my_ body, Draco. It isn't as if _you've_ something living and growing inside your womb."

Draco closed his eyes. He willed himself to be calm, finding it harder and harder to maintain his composure as she pushed and pushed at his depleting patience. But he couldn't be angry with her; it was his fault. After all, he told himself, if he hadn't asked her, things would be different now. They'd be together. Happy, maybe.

He'd _known_ that she hadn't loved him. He hadn't needed to ask. He'd sabotaged what they had the moment the question had left his lips.

Love had been fragile ground to traverse upon in their equally fragile relationship; no matter how many times he'd kissed her and whispered the words against her nose and her cheeks as he ran his hands up and down her fragrant skin, he'd come to accept the fact that she wouldn't say them back. Her heart was elsewhere, chasing longingly behind the Canons as they toured the British Isles during the season, pining for the man who'd broken it off with her so many months before, leaving her with the promise that, if she waited, maybe he'd come back.

Draco's hands balled into fists.

That was why he'd asked her. He'd been tired of being put second in her life and her mind and her heart. Especially to a man who would rather frolic around the country with slags only interested in his fame than marry the girl who was willing to give herself over to him completely, whether he was a Quidditch star or not.

But Draco had known from the moment he'd started pursuing Hermione Granger that she was delicate goods. The man she'd been dating for seven years—the man that she and the whole of wizarding Britain had wholeheartedly expected to take her hand in a more permanent union—had just dumped her. He'd told himself not to expect too much. He hadn't, either; not in the beginning. But Granger had always been a tantalizing prospect in Draco's mind, from the time they'd shared medical duties during the war to finding that he'd acquired a position at the Ministry in a department directly adjacent to hers. No matter how damaged she had been from her breakup with Ron Weasley, she'd still been able to enrapture him to the point that he'd found her presence bloody intoxicating. By their third date, he'd been hooked. He'd begun to fall into her like no other, and Hermione—so fresh out of her relationship and longing for an emotional connection—had accepted his advances readily, coming willingly into his arms and his bed. She hadn't wanted to be alone.

She hadn't loved him.

But he'd _known_ that. He shouldn't have asked. And after he had, the damage had been done; there had been no soothing her frazzled, frightened heart. He'd spooked his quarry, and she had fled, leaving him with empty drawers and the fading scent of her perfume in the days to come.

But that was okay, he told himself. Because she _hadn't_ loved him, and that's what it all came down to in the end. She liked being with him perhaps, but she was still in love with Weasley. No matter what she did with him, she was still _waiting_ for Weasley, because she was foolish and insecure. It didn't matter how many times the truth of Weasley's nonexistent romantic feelings for her slapped her in the face; she loved him with all her heart, in the same way Draco loved her. It was painful in its parallelism.

He began to think once again that he shouldn't have asked her, but was suddenly hit with the realization that his question hadn't mattered. If she hadn't fled after that, then she surely would've now, faced with the daunting prospect of having a baby by a man she didn't love.

Even if they _were_ still together, she wouldn't be happy about this. It wasn't Weasley's baby.

Anger coursed through him as swift as the blood rushing through his veins, and he knew he needed to get out of there, the rest of their conversation be damned. The loo was too small for his resentment and her tears and the baby growing in her womb. He had to get out before everything began to explode.

He reached for the doorknob, ready to be free of the suffocating space and the woman who caused him such trouble crying openly within it.

She grabbed his hand as soon as his fingers grasped the knob, and he didn't know if he jolted from the touch of her skin on his or the words that left her lips.

"I can't do this," she said. "I'm not keeping it."

-- -- -- -- -- --

_Then, 2:11 AM_

Her heels clanked loudly against the parquet flooring in the foyer as she made her way into the flat. The light in the hall had turned on when they'd entered, and the soft glow of the candle cast a golden sheen to her tanned skin. The dark evening gown she wore was a little limp after hours of wear, however she still looked completely enchanting, her dress rumpled and hair falling out of its complicated style. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands through her loose curls, pull her to him, and kiss the makeup from her lips.

She turned and looked at him, her eyes bright and cheeks pink. He wondered if she was drunk.

She said, "You're overreacting."

Draco turned away from her, setting to work on locking the door and reapplying the wards.

She continued, despite his apparent lack of attention. "You came in at the wrong moment," she explained quickly. "You don't know what you saw."

He took off his cloak, placing it neatly on the rack as he made a point not to look at her. "I doubt there was a _right_ moment to come in, Granger." He kept his tone neutral, his words nearly scathing. He wouldn't let her see that this hurt.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He breezed by her, taking care to keep his eyes adverted from her face. He made his way down the hall to the sitting room. She followed him, her heels continuing to click loudly against the floor as they moved through the house. The sound added a rhythm to the beating of his heart, constant and steady as the memory of earlier that evening and its implications ran through his head. He went to the mantle, to the decanter of brandy sitting so invitingly upon its surface. She stopped at the door, kicking off her shoes as she watched him pour himself a glass. He found the sound of the ticking clock on the wall insufficient in blocking out the vagrant thoughts in his head and the overwhelming presence of her and her crimes in the room.

"Malfoy," she said.

He inhaled, drank, and then poured himself another glass. He had always hated Ron Weasley. Even after the war, when he'd shaken Harry Potter's hand and said, "Hey, let's be cool," he'd continued to hate Ron Weasley. He hated what Ron Weasley did to Granger, and that Granger didn't realize what he did at all. He hated that Granger still loved the prick, and that he had to be bombarded by that fact every time he saw the two of them together.

He ignored his girl because of it.

"What the bloody hell are you thinking?"

Or maybe not so much at all. It was hard to ignore a woman whose voice reached levels as high as Hermione's. "I'm not _thinking_, Granger. I'm drinking."

She huffed in irritation. "Stop _calling_ me 'Granger'." He didn't respond. "We've been together for nearly a _year_, Draco."

He looked at her gravely. "Yes, and right now, I'm inclined to call you whatever I damn well please."

She glared at him. "You've no concept of the utter _hell_ you cause me."

He threw her a sidelong glance. She was rumpled perfection as she stood in the doorway, the hem of her dress brushing against the floor and utter displeasure painted on her face. "Trust me, love," he said, "you're no princess either." He drank another glass.

"Why must you be this way?"

Draco ignored her. Exhaustion ate at him, and he felt the need to sit, let himself be lulled into unconsciousness and completely forget this night and what had happened earlier that evening. A fire sparked in the fireplace with a wordless spell, immediately heating the chilled air. Whatever buzz he'd acquired at the party had long since worn off, and the two drinks he'd just downed had yet to kick in. He longed to feel the familiar hazy heat burn within the pit of his gut once again, and he resolved to pour himself another drink. _She_ was still drunk; he only thought it fair to allow himself the same luxury of giddy irrationality.

He made to pour himself another glass of brandy but soon thought better of it. Taking the entire decanter in one hand, he carried it with him as he eased himself into the wing-backed chair by the fire, setting his feet on the accompanying stool.

"What are you doing?"

"I told you," he said, filling his glass. "I'm drinking."

Her tone was sharp, annoyed. "Why?"

He looked at her. "I don't recall asking _you _why you proceeded to drown yourself with champagne at Pansy's."

She rolled her eyes. "It's late," she said. "You don't need another drink."

"I'm contemplative."

"You needn't drink because of it."

"Yes, _Hermione_, I do." He purposely downed the drink in a single gulp.

She looked at him for a long moment and sighed. "I don't know what's wrong with you," she said quietly, almost to herself. She closed the space between them, and kneeling before the footstool where his feet rested, began unlacing his shoes. She slid them off his feet with practiced ease, placing them neatly at the side of his chair before standing upright and looking at him expectantly. "Get up," she said.

He leveled her with an expression nearly belligerent. "What do you want?"

She was unperturbed. "You need to undress for bed."

"I can undress myself, Granger. _Hermione_."

"You're drunk," she said.

"No, _you're_ drunk." He was starting to get the impression that she wasn't. He wondered why.

"I've no intention of allowing you to sleep out here in stale clothing because you feel the need to brood over something you _thought_ you saw happen."

"I know what I saw," he said gravely. "You are simply set on making me believe that it was something other than the obvious."

She looked him square in the eye. "I've no reason to lie to you, Draco."

He fixed himself yet another glass of brandy. "That's what _I_ thought. Your actions tonight have lead me to think—" He broke off abruptly, complaining indignantly when she snatched the glass from his hands, sending amber liquid sloshing over their fingers and on to his pristine ivory shirt.

He watched as she downed the glass in one gulp just as he had before and wondered where she'd learned to drink like a man. It was probably from the man he'd seen her with tonight, and the answer set a frown upon his lips. He stubbornly pushed the thought away.

"You've had enough," she said quietly, the crystal snifter resting just beneath her full lower lip.

He was transfixed. "And you haven't?"

"I'm not drunk," she told him.

He stood, fluid as a cat. His eyes never left hers.

"You should get changed for bed." She made to turned away.

He grabbed her hand before she could. "I'm not finished yet," he stated slowly. He pulled the snifter from her delicate fingers with one hand, holding her wrist in an iron grip with the other. He lifted her empty hand to his face and brought her fingers to his lips, pulling two fingers into his mouth and wrapping his tongue around the brandy-soaked digits. She closed her eyes, an erotic sigh leaving her lips.

The sound sent something coursing through him, and he pulled her flush against his chest, an arm coming to wrap around her tiny waist as he dropped the glass onto the chair and swiftly pressed his lips to hers. He devoured her mouth hungrily, delighting at the passion she reciprocated as they continued to kiss, bathed in the light of fire. The hand around her waist came to press against her back, sliding upwards until it reached the zipper at the nape of her neck. He'd fantasized about stripping this dress off of her all night, and he pulled the zipper down with one swift motion. She gasped, breaking away from the kiss. Her dress began to fall away from her front and he feasted on the sight of her glowing skin. He pulled her back to him, burying his face in her neck.

"Why do you do this to me?" he murmured, biting and licking her fragrant skin. "I love you," he said. "There should only be _me_."

He bit her and she moaned, arching against him. He trailed kisses from her ear to her collarbone.

"You don't understand," she whined softly, writhing under his gentle ministrations. "It wasn't what you think—"

He shook his head, anger causing something within him to finally combust. "Stop _lying_ to me," he said, shouted.

Hermione startled, and to his horror, tears began to form in his eyes. She slowly raised a hand to his face, brushing against his cheek with a tenderness that caused his heart to ache. "I'm not."

Before she knew it, she was laying flat on her back on the floor, Draco kneeling intimately between her legs as he pressed his lips against hers in a fierce kiss. He ran his hands across her exposed skin, causing gooseflesh to break out on her arms and her legs. She shivered in its wake. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, then downwards. He fumbled with his trousers for a heartbeat before he was inside of her, his passion pounding emotion into her—words that he would never say.

But she was talking. He hated when she talked.

She said, breathless, "Why don't you believe me?"

He had no reason to believe her. Everything he knew about her and her past pointed to the worst; there could be nothing else.

He didn't answer her. She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him closer, her nails digging into his skin in silent retribution.

"Draco," she moaned.

He slowed, panting against her skin as he continued to move within her.

"I can't do this is if you don't believe me," she whispered.

"Why?" he demanded. It was guttural, fierce. "I only want to love you."

She looked at him, almost sadly. "Is that all we have?" There was something in her eyes, an unvoiced question pleading to be answered.

His body quaked with the need for release.

He asked her, strained, "What do you think?"

She shut her eyes. He spilled himself in her softness, losing himself, Granger, and everything they had in that one moment. It was also in that moment that he would create something more, unknowingly laying the building blocks for the problem inevitably to come.

-- -- -- -- -- --

TBC


	2. Part 2

**Title:** Heaven Forbid 2/3

**Author: **Empath Apathique

**Note:** A warm thank you to those who reviewed.

— — — — — —

**II.**

_The weeds grow so thick_

_You cannot even see the path_

_That leads to my house:_

_It happened while I waited_

_For someone who would not come_

Sōjō Henjo, Kokinshū

— — — — — —

_Now_

Hermione couldn't think. Her brain was in a state equivalent to pulsing slush—something she clearly wasn't used to. She had been born multitasking, and had excelled at it for most of her life; it made the distraction that possessed her now hard to understand. So many thoughts ate at her that she could hardly distinguish one from the other; however, some always managed to stand out amidst the madness. They all centered on Draco Malfoy and, above all else, the fact that he was killing her.

_Key in lock_, she told herself. _Open the door_. She told herself not to do this now, not here. She'd been standing in front of her flat for nearly five minutes, her preoccupation with this one man completely impeding her progress to enter her abode.

He was killing her.

It wasn't a conscious, literal thing. He wasn't pointing his wand at her, waiting for the right moment to cast the Killing Curse and end their shared misery. There were no hands around her throat or attempts to trip her down the stairs. Things like that weren't possible; they didn't have physical contact anymore. However, since their talk in the restroom the week before, she'd seen him in the office on a far more regular basis than before. After they'd broken up, she'd been hard pressed to see him in the office once a week; now, he was around every bend and turn, getting a drink at the water cooler or waiting in line for the loo. He wasn't avoiding her anymore.

It was ironic, almost. He was only around when she _didn't_ want to see him. She couldn't think straight as it was; his persistent presence in the office weighed on her chest so heavily she felt as if she couldn't breathe. She desperately wished that he'd continue to run away, to do whatever he did when he was out of the office, that he would pretend that she and the mess they were in didn't exist at all. Maybe she'd be able to deal with this then. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to do what she needed to.

Though, whatever resolve she'd managed to muster in the past week wouldn't do her much good now. Since she had left the office an hour ago, every time she closed her eyes she could only see his face, imploring her to _listen_ to him just as he had before she'd left, their first encounter since she'd told him she wasn't keeping his baby.

"Granger," he'd said, a haggard figure of foreboding standing in the doorway of her office.

Hermione had been at her desk, throwing things into her bag as she prepared to leave; she had stared down into its messy insides to avoid looking at his face. She'd tried her best not to be alone with him since that day in the loo, and now that she was, so many things churned nauseously in her tummy that she had been afraid she would be ill. Her hands had shaken, and a growing sense of anger had boiled within her at the utter audacity Draco Malfoy had to come into her office at a time like this.

Why was he _here?_

"We need to talk."

She'd tried to ignore him. Lipstick, planner—she'd thrown these things into her purse almost angrily, desperate to distract herself from his presence and her anger and the rampant rhythm of her beating heart.

"Granger."

"What?" she'd snapped, looking at him. The remark had been clipped, unexpected—a reflex developed after years of interacting with this man who so tore her soul in two. Everything with him was always "Granger, Granger, Granger." She'd known him for far too long—and really, far too intimately—for him to continue to address her by her last name. She hated it. He knew she hated it.

And yet, despite how peeved she had been, the underlying fear that accompanied their delicate situation still lay just beneath the surface, and she'd been terribly sorry that she'd broken her resolve and had looked him in the face.

"Hermione—"

She'd shaken her head, movements jerky. She'd looked back down at her bag and had attempted to collect the rest of her things. "I can't do this right now, Draco. I have to go."

His words had been strained. "I need to talk to you."

"No." Bag on her shoulder, she'd wrapped her scarf around her neck once, twice and had walked towards the door. She'd kept her eyes focused somewhere around his chin, trying desperately not to look into his eyes and see all the emotion she heard in his voice residing there.

He'd stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, long, dexterous fingers that she knew so well holding her firmly in place. Hermione had flinched.

"Draco," she'd said.

"Look at me." He'd squeezed her shoulder, and she'd slowly raised her eyes to his. He had been desperate, afraid, and she'd felt like dying. "I don't want you to do this."

Now, Hermione pressed her face against the hard wood of the door, closing her eyes to halt the tears that had formed. She hadn't wanted to do this with him. She hadn't wanted to get to a place where confrontations were unavoidable, and the only things left in their wake were broken hearts and pain.

It was easy for him to stand in her office and demand to talk, to ask her how and why and tell her how stupid she was because she never _fucking_ listened. But Draco wasn't in the same situation she was in. He was involved, of course, but _he_ wasn't carrying the unplanned baby around with him everywhere he went, its presence wasn't addling his brain and his insides as it sucked nutrients it so desperately needed so it could grow. _He_ wasn't alone, desperately trying to do the right thing for everyone involved. He was just being selfish, because Draco Malfoy only knew how to be selfish, and that wasn't good enough anymore.

He proclaimed to the heavens and the stars and the moon above that he loved her with every beat of his heart, but what did that _mean_? What was love but a word, tossed around between friends and lovers and everyone else in the bloody world so much it hardly had any meaning at all.

Ron had told her he loved her. He had told her everyday, when she was washing the dishes or talking through the Floo; he'd told her when she got home from work and before she went to sleep. He'd just kept telling her, so much that the words had started to mean less and less over time. Because Ron loved his socks and that team and the girls on Witch Weekly and his mum's peach pie. And even though he was in a relationship with Hermione, she'd realize after they broke up that he probably loved her in the same way that he loved all of those objects—only on the surface. He'd loved her as a friend, not as a woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. What they'd had together hadn't been real at all.

Six months into their relationship, Draco had pulled her into his arms, kissed her, and whispered "I love you" against her neck. She'd been startled, confused. Ron had said it to her so much that she had no longer known what it meant. She continuously compared Draco to Ron; she couldn't help it. She'd wondered if Draco loved her the same way that Ron had, if it was merely casual and convenient and missing everything that she'd ever thought made love special. Ron had taken the specialness out of it, and for awhile, Draco hadn't been able to put it back.

"You don't have to say it back," he'd told her, taking her silence to mean that she didn't feel the same way. She hadn't; not then.

"I know that there's still something there for Weasley. I _know_ that. But I love you, and I want you to know that, too."

But love wasn't just a word with Draco. It was an action—a way of being. The longer she'd stayed with him, the more she'd begun to realize this. It had been scary and exhilarating all at once. As time had slowly passed, she'd started to realize that words didn't mean anything. Draco hadn't needed to tell her that he loved her. She'd just known; she'd felt it.

In seemed unfair to consider Draco selfish in light of this, when she considered how much emotion he'd bombarded her with every single day. But it was that in itself that had been selfish. He had just kept _giving_, laying all of his emotions on her in hope that she would reciprocate. He'd never asked her how she felt about him—not until that night after Pansy's party, the night before she'd left—but he'd still wanted to so much from her. He'd wanted things that she wasn't ready to give before she knew that she loved him back. But it had happened. With each passing day, he had come to possess more of her mind and her heart, and she'd found that she didn't mind at all. Because she'd loved him too, then, and the words had stung at her lips, begging to be said.

And yet, despite her plan to tell him, she'd backed out at the first chance she could, silencing those words forever.

She'd never told him how she felt.

Hot tears fell onto Hermione's cheeks, and she scrubbed them away desperately. Her hands shook as she pushed her key into the lock and opened the door, anxious to get away from the cold and the thoughts that encroached on her outside of her home. The door slammed with a deafening sound, and Hermione leaned against it, her heart thumping riotously in her chest as she gulped huge mouthfuls of air. She couldn't breathe; it was almost as if the baby growing in her womb had lodged itself in her throat, restricting her airway so that she felt she would be permanently gasping for air.

The sitting room was dark, but oxygen deprivation made the world a twisted plane with blurred edges to Hermione's eyes. She dropped her bag on the sofa, kicking off her heels and throwing her cloak on the floor as she stumbled through the dark.

Her two kittens met her by the kitchen door, mewing excitedly and pawing at her feet. She picked one up and held it against her chest, hugging it as it purred happily against her. She wondered at its name, which one it was. The two cats were identical in both appearance and sex, which made keeping up with their names especially difficult. Draco had taken to calling them "One" and "Two," though they only ever responded to those names when _he_ said them. Hermione called them both "Kitty."

The other continued to paw at her feet, and she bent to pick that one up too, carrying them both into the kitchen to fix them a bowl of dinner.

She turned on the kitchen light, looking around the messy room with a sense of dread as she thought of how negligent she'd been with her cleaning. She'd been negligent with _everything_, really: her laundry needed to be done, and she'd hadn't called Harry all week; she was behind with four reports at work and she hadn't remembered to return a call to the Muggle Prime Minister to set up a meeting to discuss something she couldn't even remember now. All she could think about was Draco Malfoy and his baby, and how they were slowly sucking everything out of her life.

She placed both cats upon the counter, retrieving their food from atop the fridge before pouring a sufficient amount into their shared dish. She was immediately ignored, abandoned for sustenance as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And really, it was. Hermione wished her life was so simple. Not even pregnancy was difficult for cats.

She sighed, opening the pantry to look for something quick to make for dinner. She usually went out for dinner on Thursday nights, a habit she'd acquired during her time with Draco, when neither of them was in the mood to cook. It'd been more than a month since they had split and yet she still thought of her life in terms of him. She had a hard time living through her days without comparing her life now to what it'd been while they were still together. She hated that the two didn't compare, that she longed for sensations and emotions that she'd only ever felt while she was with him.

She hated that he wanted her to keep the baby.

Hermione had shaken her head vehemently when he'd told her this, looking down at the floor so she wouldn't see the look in his eyes. "We can't raise a baby. We don't know _how_."

"That doesn't matter," he'd said. "People learn. _We_ can learn."

"We're not even together anymore!" she'd snapped.

He'd been immediately incensed. He had shouted, "That doesn't matter!" He'd paused, voice strained as he'd struggled to calm himself. "We don't have a _choice_, Hermione."

Hermione had looked at him seriously. "We do."

He'd looked away from her, running a hand through his hair in agitation. She had noticed then how rumpled he'd looked, how utterly un-Malfoy with his unkempt appearance. His robes had needed pressing, and he'd looked as if he hadn't shaved in three days; from the bags under his eyes, it looked as if he hadn't slept in a week. He'd looked like her.

"You have to understand, Draco," she'd told him quietly.

He'd looked at her insistently. "I _can't_."

Hermione had shaken her head again, refusing to accept his response as her anxiety rose. "You can't say that now," she'd said. "You have to support me."

"I _tried_," he told her. "I tried, and I_ can't_, and I don't want you to do it."

"It's my _life_, Draco!" she'd shouted.

"But it's _my_ baby! Our child, together."

Hermione felt her stomach rumble, and a familiar feeling of nausea welled within her as she clambered up from the floor and raced down the hall to the loo. Thoughts of the conversation with the not-so-reluctant father of her child unsettled her completely, and she emptied her stomach for what felt like forever. Afterwards, she pressed her forehead against the cold, porcelain commode and inhaled deep gulps of air.

The experience was welcomed, almost. Even if other pregnant women didn't have the drama she had with the men in their lives, at least she knew that they were connected through their shared nausea. Hermione wanted to cry.

She didn't known many pregnant women beyond Ginny Weasley, though it must be said that Ginny Weasley could very well be the equivalent of two or three women: she was twenty-five and was working on her fourth child. Ginny had her mother's affinity for large families, and very much like the Weasley matriarch, had taken to motherhood like a fish to water. _She_ certainly hadn't had Hermione's problems. Merlin, Ginny hadn't even _retched_. She'd gained twenty pounds and had spent the months getting foot rubs from Dean, looking completely gorgeous with her pregnant glow.

Hermione wasn't like that. She would never be like that.

She couldn't imagine herself as blushing and beautiful in pregnancy, happy with a man by her side to rub her feet and hold her hand as she waddled down Diagon Alley.

She'd imagined it—almost—with Draco. Once upon a time.

Hermione was struck by a memory of him a few months before. They'd been lying in bed together, tangled around each other after making love. Draco had been drowsing lightly beside her while she'd traced patterns on his chest and prattled on about nothing at all. She had always talked during those moments, telling him things she wouldn't normally have the nerve to say.

That night had been the first time that she'd ever told him that she wanted a family. Only one baby, but it would be a family nonetheless. They would live in a house in Calais, and they would have a dog and three kittens and a vegetable garden out back to plant tomatoes in the early spring.

"And a rabbit," she'd said as an afterthought. "I've always wanted a rabbit."

She'd yawned, exhaustion washing over her.

"Boy or girl?" he'd murmured sleepily.

She'd been surprised. She'd figured he'd fallen asleep. "I don't know," she'd answered, thoughtful. "A daughter would keep things interesting, but I certainly wouldn't mind producing a boy with _your_ coloring, Malfoy." She'd run her fingers up his chest, thrumming them lightly on the hollow of his throat. "You're a beautiful man."

Sleepiness be damned, he'd pulled her to him then, his lips sealing over hers as he'd kissed the words from her mouth and replied in turn with his own ardent emotion. She'd discovered then that talk of producing Malfoy heirs could turn Draco into a beast, and he'd made love to her repeatedly into the night, promising her as many children as she wanted.

It was ironic, almost. They'd been together then—happy even. However, though he'd promised her the moon and the stars and four blond boys as he'd spilled himself inside of her time and time again, it was now when they'd gone their separate ways and children were the furthest thing from their minds that he'd given her what he'd promised so many times before.

The thought pained Hermione in a way she'd never expected—in a way that only things that involved Draco Malfoy gave her pain.

But she couldn't _do_ this, she told herself. She had an appointment at the clinic tomorrow. She couldn't start fantasizing about his fucking babies now. It was too late.

He just didn't understand. He wasn't able to look beyond himself and see the whole picture. How could they possibly have a child together when they weren't seeing each other anymore? It wasn't uncommon for a child to have parents who lived in separate households after a divorce, but why on earth would she bring a child into a situation that was already an utter mess? He shouldn't _want_ to. He was so blinded by whatever was drawing him to her that he didn't even care that he didn't know how she felt about him. But that was Draco's problem: he _didn't_ know how Hermione felt about him. He'd never cared. He'd told her he loved her anyway.

But no matter how much faith Hermione had put in his words in the past, she could only wonder at the depth of his feelings when he'd stayed with her even though he'd been sure that her affections had always been somewhere else. Ginny had thought it was touching, that it said he'd love her no matter what.

Was it so wrong of her to say that it wasn't enough—that no matter how much emotion he infused into his words whenever he told her that he loved her, it hadn't been enough to make her stay?

Draco had been so sure of her affections for Ron that he hadn't noticed when they'd disappeared. He'd allowed the thought of her imagined affections for her ex-lover to completely cloud his mind; he hadn't been able to trust her, and Hermione couldn't stay with someone who called her a liar with one breath and told her that he only wanted to love her with the next.

And that had hurt. It was as if he had no expectations of her, as if he didn't _expect_ her to give him what he wanted at all.

And that was why she left.

It hadn't been fair for either of them to remain in that relationship, for him to ask her to give him something she wasn't willing to give to someone who didn't trust her—for him to love her regardless.

But she'd never given him a reason to trust her, had she? She'd spent half of their relationship foolishly pining after Ron, holding on to that teenage hope that had burned inside of her that he would come back. It didn't matter how well things were going with Draco, or that Draco had been infinitely better to her than Ron had ever _attempted_ to be.

She'd held on to Ron, and Draco had known it. He'd probably thought that she would always hold on to Ron. That's why he hadn't believed her when she'd told him that nothing had happened between her and Ron on the night of Pansy's party. He hadn't wanted to fall into what he thought was a lie. Because he loved her so much, he'd loved her anyway—despite whatever he'd thought she'd done—and Hermione had felt as if her heart had literally been ripped in two.

She knelt on the bathroom floor, clutching at her chest as she cried. She'd spent so much time telling herself that she couldn't be with someone that didn't trust her that she hadn't stopped to consider why he didn't. She hadn't earned it. She'd spent too much time openly wanting someone else, and he had been too caught up in what he felt for her to complain.

It'd been all her fault.

Hermione felt as if her chest was ready to burst from the sheer pressure that weighed down on her, and she cried so much that she made herself sick again, forcefully reminding her of the baby growing in her womb.

She had ruined their relationship, and now she had to do the unthinkable—completely ruin this, too. Something that could have been so happy, made everything so close to bloody perfect, was now slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

She was going to have an abortion.

It felt so wrong, it had always felt so wrong, and she only realized now that she'd utterly avoided thinking about what the procedure entailed and what the repercussions would be.

"Imagine you're getting a pap smear," the nurse had said when Hermione had scheduled the appointment. "With anesthesia. You lay down, put your legs up, and by the time you come to, it's all over."

Sweet Merlin, she was going to kill her _baby_.

She asked herself how she could keep it, what she could possibly do to make this situation right. No matter how she felt about Draco now, she couldn't possibly enter any kind of relationship with him after everything that had transpired in the past. The damage had been done. She'd treated him horribly, and he couldn't trust her because of it—couldn't truly love her as a result. He didn't know what love was, remember?

But then again, did she?

If she loved him, she would listen to him. If she loved him, she wouldn't do this.

Hermione stood shakily, going to her bedroom and nearly collapsing on the bed. Dinner was out of the question; all she wanted to do was die. She closed her eyes, pulling the blanket over her head as she willed herself to believe that she was doing the right thing.

— — — — — —

i_Then, 12:00 AM—Midnight_/i

Pansy Parkinson knew how to throw a party, and the woman's pockets went so deep that she didn't spare a single expense when it came time to doing so. Considering that it was her twenty-seventh birthday, Pansy had probably gone a little over the edge, ice sculptures dancing magnificently in midair above the ballroom as a twenty-seven piece orchestra regaled the room with beautiful pieces. The tables and chairs were draped in sumptuous fabric, and the lighting dimmed to the point where sensuality easily came out to play; the two-hundred some guests mingled effortlessly in the open environment.

Hermione was having the best time she'd had at a party all year. She and Pansy weren't particular friends, but they connected through their significant others. Hermione was dating Draco Malfoy, and Pansy was dating The Boy Who Lived; they saw each other often because of it, and Hermione had received a guaranteed invite to the biggest party of the winter months.

Currently, she was sitting with her feet upon a chair at the back of the room, shoes resting neatly at her side while she nursed a glass of champagne. She hadn't had any all night, but thought she deserved one after spending two hours on her feet. Draco simply did not know how to sit down, and he'd been determined to twirl her around the floor to every single song. Even when she'd managed to wrestle herself away from him, Neville, Harry, and other friends she didn't know how to say 'no' to had pulled her back onto the dance floor. She was hoping the alcohol would dull the pain.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" the birthday girl asked, wrapped in layers of expensive satin and bejeweled with family heirlooms she'd inherited just this year. She was holding her own glass of champagne.

Hermione smiled. "The party's lovely, Pansy," she said honestly. "The best I've been to all year."

Pansy grinned. "Of course it is, love. It's my birthday," she said.

Hermione nodded in agreement. "Of course." They clinked their glasses and drank.

Pansy appeared satisfied, and excused herself before sauntering away.

A large, warm hand came to wrap around the back of her neck, and Hermione turned to see Draco staring down at her. "Making nice with the Slytherins again, I see?"

She smiled. "What can I say?" she said. "I have a thing for green."

He chuckled, and it warmed her to see him like this, so at ease and open. His finger wrapped around the singular curl of hair that had escaped the intricate knot atop of her head, gently tugging on it until she titled her head back to look at him.

"Lavender won't be too happy to see you doing that," she told him, voice jokingly grave. "It took a whole hour to twist my hair into this."

"It looks positively painful."

"My head has been throbbing all night."

Draco snorted. "What you women do for glamour…"

Hermione arched a dark brow in challenge. "You certainly would know, wouldn't you, Malfoy?"

He looked affronted and she laughed. "How much have you had to drink tonight?" he asked her testily.

She smiled. "One. With Pansy."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, you've had enough," he said.

She nodded, and he looked surprised. "I've no intentions of getting drunk tonight," she explained. "It took far too long for me to get into this dress for me to ruin it by getting sick."

He grinned, eyes trailing up and down her reclining form as he appraised her attire for the hundredth time that day. Her gown was black; it had a form-fitting bodice with a long, fluid skirt and gathered straps that draped delicately over her milky shoulders. "You look beautiful," he told her. His hand moved from behind her neck to her shoulder, brushing against the sheer sleeves of her dress before trailing down her arm. He kissed her temple, smelled her hair. "Stunning."

Hermione closed her eyes and smiled, delighting in his praise and his presence.

He moved around her then, placing her feet in his lap as he sat in the seat where they'd previously rested. "Tell Lavender that I approve."

She nodded, closing her eyes as he began massaging her aching soles. "Merlin, that feels good."

"Consider it an apology. I'm sorry to have kept you out there for so long."

She snorted. "I find that hard to believe."

"Believe what you want, Granger. But despite the immense pleasure I got from pulling you indecently close to me and twirling you around the floor, I _am_ sorry that your feet hurt."

She laughed. "You're ridiculous," she said.

He shook his head. "I love you."

He was staring directly into her eyes, and her heart skipped a beat at the emotion he was showing her. Her mouth was dry, however she parted her lips unconsciously, and words she didn't even realize were there were poised on the tip of her tongue. "Oh, Draco—"

"Malfoy!" Theodore Nott stumbled drunkenly over to them, clasping Draco roughly on the back. "Just the man I wanted to see!"

Draco rolled his eyes, and Hermione smiled awkwardly, biting her lip as she swallowed her words.

"And Granger!" Theo smiled cheekily at her. "Hi, Granger."

Hermione waved her fingers in greeting. "Hello, Theodore."

Draco scowled at him, annoyed. "What do you want, Nott?"

Theo held his hands up in defense. "Hey, I just wanna talk. Don't you have a minute for your old school pal?"

The look on Draco's face clearly said that he didn't have time for Theo and that he was going to rearrange said man's face if he didn't leave him alone right away. It was why Hermione chose to intervene, sliding her feet from Draco's lap and rising from her chair.

"Where are you going?" he asked sourly.

"I'm giving you time to talk." She picked up her shoes.

He didn't look happy. "Granger—" he started.

Theo interrupted him before he could continue. "Oh, Granger, you're a godsend. Thank you."

Hermione nodded. "Come find me when you're finished," she said, looking Draco in the eye. He didn't look at all pleased with her, and she gave him a small smile before walking away, bare feet gliding against the floor as she carried her shoes in her hands. She could feel Draco's eyes on her back until she left the room.

Hermione made her way to the small balcony off the side of the lavish ballroom, throwing open the French doors and delighting in the chilly air against her skin. She wasn't much of a drinker, and the glass of champagne she'd toasted with Pansy had already began to make a delicious heat flow just beneath her skin. She probably looked absolutely flushed, and she wondered if that drink had had anything to do with the words she'd almost said.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips, staring unseeingly at the quiet London street below. So close, she thought. She'd been so unthinkingly close to something that would irrevocably change their relationship forever. They'd been together for a year now, and while she'd contemplated the idea of telling Draco how she felt before, she'd never been so close to actually saying the words aloud. Merlin, she'd only been able to admit them to herself in the past month. She'd never thought that she'd get to this place with him. She'd thought that they were having fun—going out and making love and enjoying each other's company. She hadn't expected to find something like this after Ron. Her relationship with him had been too big and all-consuming. She'd thought that she'd be stuck in the vortex Ron pulled her into forever, regardless of the fact that they hadn't been dating for nearly a year.

But Draco had pulled her out of that. It had taken time, and God knew she'd fought him every step of the way, continuously holding on to the memory of what she'd shared with Ron even though he'd left her high and dry so many months before. And he'd waited. He'd loved her anyway.

_Oh, God,_ she thought. _I love him so much._

She had to tell him this. When he finished with Theodore—when he came and found her—she'd tell him once and again and then a million times more. She'd tell him until he understood.

She grinned nervously, wondering how he'd react. Though something fearful churned in the pit of her tummy, warning her of what the enormity of those words entailed.

She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she didn't notice when someone else stepped onto the balcony, didn't realize that they had come to speak with her until she felt their cold hand on the exposed skin of her back.

"Merlin, 'Mione," Ron said. "You're hard to get in touch with."

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice, both at the suddenness and the realization that Ron was standing right there. She moved away from him without thinking, turning towards him almost warily as his hand slid away from her skin.

He looked at her curiously. "Don't be so antsy," he said. "It's only me."

Hermione was sure he hadn't a clue as to the havoc his presence caused her. She felt her throat become dry; her palms began to sweat. He was just as tall and imposing as ever, towering over her by nearly a foot. He was dressed finely, most certainly Ginny's expertise and his Quidditch player's salary; the dress robes accentuated his form nicely, the rich color bringing out the blue of his eyes. Quite the catch, she thought miserably, thinking that he had _almost_ been the one for her. But that time had come and gone, as transitory as the seasons shifting from winter to spring.

It had been hard to accept. She had chased after Ron for more than half of her life—had bent over backwards and forwards and twisted herself into a million odd angles to accommodate him and his pride—and yet it still hadn't been enough. She'd given him everything that she'd had and he'd still wanted more. Or, if not 'wanted,' then 'wondered.'

"I just want to know, Hermione," he'd said. "I love you and I _have_ loved you for a long time, but I just wonder what else is out there."

He'd gone on to tell her that it was natural for him to wonder about other prospects—to want to garner more experience in life before he decided to settle down. But she was the only girl for him, he'd said. No matter what happened, he'd told her that he'd always come back to her in the end.

He'd proceeded to _fuck_ with a free conscience immediately afterward, leaving Hermione with the stagnant pieces of hope that he gave her whenever they met at Harry's or the Burrow or with other mutual acquaintances. Ron hadn't cared that Draco had asked her out, or that she had desperately been trying to move on by dating him. And no matter how much she'd tried to move on, her heart had still been caught somewhere with Ron; the sight of him had been enough to make her forget about Draco entirely. It had showed, and Draco had seen. But despite how bad she felt for hurting him in such a way, it wasn't for many months that things had changed.

It had been early September, and Quidditch season had just ended, leaving Ron with far more free time than he'd had during any other time of the year. They'd been having dinner at Harry's and he'd come up to her and said, "I'm always too busy, you're always too busy—we need to reconnect."

He'd asked her out to lunch at a posh new restaurant in London, someplace expensive and hip. Hermione had cancelled her afternoon appointments, got herself dolled up by Lavender down the hall, and had gone to meet him twenty minutes early. And she'd sat in the restaurant for three hours, finally eating a salad alone when she realized that he wasn't going to show.

It had been late when she'd finally dragged herself into her flat, feeling thoroughly miserable that she'd been stood up, made a complete fool of. She'd dropped her bag and kicked off her shoes at the door, flicking on the lights sluggishly only to be greeted by the site of Draco in her sitting room, napping on her couch. Two orange marmalade kittens rested on his lap, red bows around their necks as they slept peacefully on her man's chest.

And damn it all to hell, she'd broken down right then and there. She realized then that she needn't chase after flighty men when there was one patiently waiting at home for her—one who adored her completely. That was when Ron stopped mattering, when she'd let herself fall in love.

But Hermione hadn't seen Ron since before their failed lunch date; whatever resolutions she'd made about their past and his position in her life now were nothing in comparison to the enormity of his presence in front of her now.

"Ron," she said, clearing her throat quietly when his name came out as a squeak. "What are you doing here?"

Ron smiled, grin as crooked as she remembered as he came to stand next to her on the balcony. "I was invited," he said. "By Pansy."

"I didn't know you and Pansy were acquainted."

Ron shrugged. "She's dating Harry."

Hermione nodded, feeling very silly for asking a question with such an obvious answer; after all, she was acquainted with Pansy in the same way. But since they'd broken up, Ron's presence had the uncanny ability to leave her tongue-tied and on edge, desperately searching for the right thing to say that wouldn't be awkward or leave her in tears.

She told herself to grow up. She was supposed to be beyond Ron Weasley and what he wouldn't give her. She had something else now, she told herself. Something better.

Hermione wiped her sweaty palms on the fabric of her dress, looking cautiously at her companion again. "I suppose you're right," she said slowly.

Ron snorted good-humoredly. "What's with you, 'Mione? We know each other far too well for you to be so formal."

Hermione smiled a little, feeling a surge of familiarity rush through her. He used to be her friend, she reminded herself. Maybe he could still be her friend. She looked down at the granite railing, her heart thumping so wildly in her chest she could feel it in her fingers. Maybes didn't matter here. All she could think was that she hadn't seen Ron in more than four months, and facing him now was so much harder than she ever thought it would be.

He seemed puzzled by her silence, and he looked down and asked her, "Are you okay?"

Hermione nodded, brushing away his concern. "I'm fine."

He was unconvinced. "Something's wrong," he said definitively. "I know that look, and I know _you_."

She had to stop herself from snorting. They certainly _did_ know each other very well. She considered the thought that maybe they knew each other _too_ well. Perhaps friendship was a line they never should have crossed.

"Don't worry," she told him. "I'm fine."

He looked at her for a moment and then shrugged, sighing. "How are you?" he asked "I haven't seen you in a while."

"You're always off in other countries."

"Not right now."

"Well, it's your off-season," she said, almost patronizingly. "And you know how busy I am."

"Yes, I know," he said. He seemed to notice the condescension in her tone, and she could feel his mire grow as he stood beside her. Yes, they knew each other far too well indeed. "With your job and your boyfriend taking up so much of your life, you can't seem to find the time to pencil anything else in."

"Stop." He paused, and she looked at him. "Don't do that to me."

"I'm just saying—"

"Don't _do_ that to me."

His nostrils flared angrily. "Every time I want to see you, you have plans with Malfoy."

"I'm _dating_ him, Ron. There's nothing wrong with that."

"We've known each other for more than half of our lives. What I want should be taken into consideration as well." He looked at her almost tenderly. "We've been through so much, Hermione."

"Which is why I can't do this with you, Ron. I—" She paused, looking down at the railing as she clambered to find the resolve that always deserted her whenever Ron was near. "I'm moving on."

"Yes, I know," he said, almost dismissively. "You're dating Malfoy. You're happy—"

"I don't love you anymore."

Silence followed her quiet declaration, and Hermione peered at her companion to see how he'd responded to her words. He looked confused, almost—as if he didn't understand.

He asked her, "What is that supposed to mean?"

And she realized then that he wouldn't understand. He wasn't at a point in his life where he could. She sighed, smiling at him almost sadly. "I'm leaving," she said, turning to go.

"Wait." He grabbed her arm, pulling her so forcefully that she crashed into his chest. "Hermione," he said softly, his face closer than it'd been in a year.

She froze for an instant—the longest moment of her life. A million and one thoughts passed through her brain, telling her that this is what she'd been waiting for and that she should run away and that Draco, Draco, Draco was probably waiting for her in the ballroom.

She remembered her words, her stunted declaration:_ "Oh, Draco—"_

She needed to tell him what she had to say.

Hermione pulled away from Ron, putting as much space between the two of them as she could.

"I'm not doing this anymore," she said finally. "I don't want to."

She left before he could say another word. She didn't care that he was confused, or hurt, or whatever. All she could think about was Draco, and she hurried away from the balcony to find him in the ballroom.

She nearly bumped into him. He was standing just beyond the French doors, his face pale and unforgiving as he stared at her. Her heart stopped. "Had a nice chat?" he asked scathingly. "How are things going with the old boyfriend?"

His voice was clipped and cold, completely different from the playful tone he'd addressed her with before.

She stared at him imploringly. "Draco—"

He silenced her with a word. "Don't."

— — — — — —

TBC


	3. Part 3

**Title:** Heaven Forbid 3/3

**Author: **Empath Apathique

**Note:** Final chapter. Once again, thanks for reading.

— — — — — —

**III.**

_If I consider_

_My body like the fields_

_Withered by winter,_

_Can I hope, though I am burnt,_

_That spring will come again?_

Ise, Kokinshū

— — — — — —

_Now_

Draco couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in bed for hours, counting the cracks on his ceiling as he listened to the ticking of the clock on the wall. He counted the seconds as they passed, the seconds adding to minutes and the minutes adding to hours as he lay awake for nearly half the night.

In ten hours, nine hours, eight hours, seven, six—in six hours she was going to kill his baby.

He wanted to sleep—Merlin knew he needed the reprieve—however he had a masochistic need to watch the time pass. He was waiting for morning, for 9AM. He recognized that he'd probably be less distressed if he slept straight through it, but reason held no appeal to him. He wanted to be there and he couldn't, and this was the only thing that he could think of that would connect him to the event in some way.

Her appointment was at nine; he'd checked. It was at a Muggle clinic not far from where she lived, and he'd cursed her foolishness for trusting Muggles with something so delicate. It was faulty Muggle medicine that had gotten them into this problem to begin with; he hadn't thought that she'd willingly give them another chance at ruining her life.

But Granger was stupid like that, so goddamn stupid that it hurt. And now he was waiting, counting the seconds and staring at the ceiling as he hoped for the millionth time that she would've listened, that she would _still_ listen.

"You can't tell a woman what to do," Narcissa had always said, a mother's sage advice to her then teenaged son while he'd conducted his various affairs.

Draco had found the statement to be an oxymoron then. His mother had been the picture of the obedient housewife for his entire life; she had deferred to his father's every whim. He hadn't made the connection between the sadness in his mother's eyes and his father callous behavior. It hadn't been until he'd come of age, the war raging outside their windows, that he'd seen why she'd told him this, the subtle meaning behind her words. His father had ordered his mother around, and his mother had respected him little for it. By the time Draco had turned nineteen, there had been no love between them at all, and when Lucius had started to bring the Dark Lord's war into their very home, she'd let all the pain he'd inflicted upon her with his thoughtless subjugation fuel her decision to bring evidence against him before the Ministry of Magic. She was the reason Lucius was currently rotting in jail.

It was only during his father's sentencing that he'd learned the truth of her words. He'd integrated that ideal into all of his dealings with women because of it—from the workplace to his private relationships. He was older now and knew better, and he got along a lot better with women because of his mother's words.

You couldn't force a woman to give you anything. Even if you did, was it that thing truly worth having if she hadn't given it of her own free will?

That's what he'd told himself when Hermione left. He'd been sitting in the den, drinking brandy and staring into the fire in the middle of the morning while she'd packed her things in the next room. _She doesn't want to stay_, he'd told himself. _You can't tell her to stay._ He'd wanted too—so badly he'd shattered the snifter with the uncontrolled magic escaping his fingertips—but he hadn't; you couldn't tell a women what to do. He couldn't tell Hermione to forget about Weasley, or that she should love _him_, or that she should stay. He couldn't tell her anything—she wouldn't have _listened_ to anything—and she'd left, leaving empty drawers and shadows in a house that had only been bearable because she was there.

And _fuck_ telling himself that it was okay, because it wasn't. Every time he found something she'd forgotten around the flat—one of her books in the sitting room or a pair of knickers under the bed—he was forcefully reminded that it _wasn't_ okay. Because he loved her, and he had never loved anyone in his life as much as he loved her. And no matter how much he told her, she didn't get it, because she was too busy holding on to whatever she had in that stupid head of hers about Weasley, and telling him that she couldn't give him what he wanted.

And he wanted to know _why_. If she had everything he wanted, why couldn't she give it to him? Why did she constantly have to hold him back, keeping him at arm's length while he openly suffered from her cruelty?

Why didn't she love him?

Draco sat up abruptly, something akin to pain squeezing at his chest.

She didn't love him.

He'd told himself this before—so many times it hurt—however the full implications of the thought hadn't hit him until now. It was hard to believe. They'd been together for _too long_ for her not to love him. She responded to him _too well_. If she didn't love him, wouldn't she have been colder, unfeeling? Would she have responded to every emotion he kissed onto her skin if she didn't feel the same way?

But that was all conjecture—maybes, maybes, maybes. It didn't make any sense to continue to think about how Hermione felt when they'd broken up more than six weeks before. And she wasn't coming back. She was pregnant, but even that didn't mean anything. She didn't love him and she wasn't coming back and she wasn't keeping the baby.

Draco got out of bed, his bare feet padding across the cold wood floor as he made his way into the kitchen. He wasn't hungry but that didn't matter. He wanted to get away from the thoughts in his head, and he walked out of the bedroom almost as if he could leave them there.

They followed him.

He busied himself with menial things; he washed the pile of dishes in the sink and rearranged the spice cabinet and looked through the stack of letters sitting on the counter. Many of them were old, placed there when they'd originally been delivered and then left to rot. He hadn't had the inclination to answer the post in weeks, and his mother had taken to visiting him at the office when he hadn't responded to her fourth letter.

He hadn't had to tell her what was wrong. Everyone knew that Granger had left him.

Narcissa had placed a gloved hand his cheek comfortingly, just as she'd always done when he was a child. "You can't tell a woman what to do," she'd told him again. "Get some sleep, dear. You look exhausted."

He'd nodded, told her that he had to get back to work. She'd left him with a kiss on the forehead and had sent him a package of sleeping draught that very day.

He hadn't told her about the baby, or what Granger planned to do. He hadn't been able to think about it then; he had told himself that it wasn't real. But as time had passed and Granger had begun to visibly retreat further and further into herself at work, he'd taken the initiative to investigate the matter himself. And she'd made an appointment. He'd found out three days before she was supposed to go in.

And no matter how lackluster the world had been beforehand, when he'd found out about the appointment, everything kind of broke. It was as if an earthquake had come and had completely shaken everything up, causing the pieces of his world to crack and break away until there was nothing there at all.

And he'd told her. He'd told her not to do it. He'd told her what to do.

But Mum was too right in that respect. Granger had her mind made up, and he was left to deal with the consequences. They both had to.

That had been hard for him to admit. For so long, he'd felt as if Granger was the singular cause of all of their problems: Granger had been stuck on Weasley, Granger had broken up with him—and now, Granger wouldn't keep their baby. But he had _let_ her remain stuck on Weasley. He'd never said anything about the mess her residual feelings had brought into their relationship. Sometimes he had gotten angry—had thrown things against the walls and hadn't talked to her—but in the end, he had always ignored the issue, choosing instead to be a coward and pretend that it wasn't there at all, lest he rock the boat and lose what they had.

And it had eaten at him, the anger and the hurt coiling painfully inside of him until it was all he could think about sometimes. He had known that he'd made her happy, but he hadn't been able to stop the suspicion that grew in him—couldn't quiet the voice that told him that, no matter how happy she was with him, she'd be infinitely happier with Weasley. The voice had told him that she _knew_ she'd been happier with Weasley, and that it was only a matter of time before she _left_ him for Weasley.

That was why he hadn't said anything, why he'd just let her go. In a small part of his heart, he'd already accepted that she was going to leave him. He'd poured himself a drink, then another, steadily drinking himself into intoxication as he'd told himself to just watch her go. In the hour that it had taken her to pack, he had drunk himself to sleep. Her absence had crashed into his head as swift as his hangover when he had awoke. She'd left a note on the fireplace wishing him well and saying goodbye.

He'd gone back to sleep.

Draco eased himself into a chair at the table. So many things had warred through his mind then. He'd wanted to tell her so many things—give her all of his reasons why leaving him was a bad thing. He hadn't. Because you _couldn't_ tell a woman what to do, and his pride had still been too big for him to ask her to stay. He hadn't lifted a hand or his voice to fight her on this decision. He'd just let her go, cut the silken threads away from her wings so she could fly safely away from the spider's web.

Maybe that had been a problem, as well. He'd always told Granger that he cared, but he'd never showed her at the right time. Like when she was leaving, or when she was crying in the loo because she was pregnant and didn't know what to do.

He'd regret that day until he drew his last breath. He'd been so caught up in how he was feeling that he hadn't considered that this was happening to her as well. He'd let everything that had bothered him since their breakup color that moment, and he'd been so angry about how he thought she _didn't_ feel about him that he hadn't been able to cope at all. He hadn't been thinking about the baby, or her. Once again, he'd only thought of himself. He'd let her make all the decisions alone.

And then he'd gone to her and complained, told her that she couldn't do what she thought was right because _he_ didn't want her to.

It was the only time he'd ever demanded anything of her. It was heartbreaking that he'd chosen the entirely wrong moment to do so.

So no, their problems hadn't only been her fault. He'd caused them as well.

Draco laid his head on the table, ignoring the burning sensation behind his eyes. That was where he sat until daybreak, where he'd eventually find reprieve from the madness in his head. He slept.

— — — — — —

_Now, continued_

Draco was awakened by an incessant tapping sound on the sitting room window. His neck hurt from sleeping with his head on the kitchen table, and he rubbed it absently as he stumbled through the flat. Sunlight beamed in through the picture windows, and there was an owl tapping on a glass pane trying to deliver the post. He opened it without thinking, taking the post and shooing the owl away. The sunlight hurt his eyes, and he turned away, realizing only then what such brightness could mean. He looked at the clock on the mantle, dread blossoming in the pit of his gut when he realized it was noon.

He'd slept through the entire thing.

Draco's hands began to shake. He hadn't planned to meet her at the clinic against her wishes, or devise some evil scheme so she wouldn't go at all. He'd only wanted to wait for it, to know that it was _time_. He'd wanted to watch the time tick by on the clock in his bedroom, wait there just as he would have in the waiting room if she'd allowed him to go.

But he hadn't. He had missed it, and now it was over, and there was no longer anything tying him to the woman he loved.

It was over.

He couldn't describe the feeling in his chest then, the explosion of something so vital to his wellbeing. It was as if something broke, and his heart was trying to beat itself right out of his goddamn chest. It was almost as if he was going to die, too.

He looked at the clock again:12:15. By now, Hermione's appointment had undoubtedly come and gone. He wondered if she was home yet, or if she was still filling out papers and dealing with the Muggle bureaucracy he loathed. She probably felt like hell, and he had the overwhelming urge to hold her in his arms then, bury his face in her hair, and not let go until everything else went away. He didn't know if it would be for her benefit or for his own. But he knew for a fact that she couldn't possibly be okay after what she'd endured that morning, and that he needed to be there with her. Because despite everything—Weasley, the breakup, the baby, and _everything_—he still loved her. And no matter how she felt about him, it all came second to his need to _be there_. For her. He wanted to give her the comfort that he hadn't before; he wanted to give her something now that he knew she needed.

He was pulling on yesterday's trousers before he knew it, shoving his feet into his shoes as he pulled a jumper over his head. He didn't bother combing his hair; that didn't matter. He pulled on his coat as he unlocked the door, pulling it open quickly only to find Hermione standing there, her hand poised in midair to knock.

She appeared just as shocked as he felt, her eyes going wide as all the color drained from her face. She looked as if she'd gotten as much sleep as he had last night as well, but she was still beautiful to him. She would always be beautiful to him.

"Oh, Draco," she said softly.

He closed his eyes, allowing the emotion in her words to wash over him.

"I'm so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. I kept telling myself that it was _right_ and I—" She broke off then, lips quivering. "I don't know what I was thinking."

He felt something within him quake, thoughts of her morning appointment threatening to make him ill. He didn't want to talk about this. He wanted to hold her until it went away. "Granger—"

"I've just been so _stupid_ about everything, Draco," she said. "I should have listened to you. You were right—about the birth control and just _everything_." She looked down at her shoes, wringing her hands in agitation. "I'm so sorry."

She made his heart hurt. "That doesn't matter now," he told her. "Not anymore."

She nodded, slowly lifting her head to look at him. "I've messed it all up, haven't I? From the very beginning, with Ron."

He asked her, "Why are you talking about Weasley?"

She continued, unperturbed. "I shouldn't have brought him into our relationship."

His anger flared. "What does Weasley have to do with us, now?" She looked at him, startled by his outburst. He ran his hand over his face, trying to calm down. "He doesn't matter, Granger. Not anymore."

"I suppose he doesn't. But he did. That was the problem, yeah?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Even when he wasn't a problem, you still thought he was. Because he always had been, and you thought he always would be."

"What are you talking about?"

"I didn't do anything with Ron."

Draco closed his eyes. He remembered that night, the heady atmosphere at Pansy's party and how he'd taken her into his arms, spinning her around and around as if nothing had mattered at all. He remembered talking to her at the table, the luring emotion in her eyes. And he remembered going to find her after his talk with Theo and stopping cold in his tracks when he saw her in the arms of her ex-lover.

"Stop lying to me, Hermione," he told her lowly.

"I'm _not_, Draco," she said. "He wanted to talk but he was being cruel. I turned to leave but he grabbed my arm and pulled me back."

"So you fell," he said, sounding wholly as if he didn't believe her. "You fell into his arms."

"Why can't you _trust_ me?" she shouted. She paused. "Maybe I haven't earned it, but how do you expect to get through anything if you can't believe in what I say?"

He opened his mouth to reply but soon closed it, sighing. "It's hard, Granger. Seeing you with him—it fucking _hurt_."

"I know," she said.

"No, you don't. I love you. I love you so much it fucking pours out of my skin, and you have always loved Weasley. You always _will_ love Weasley—"

"Don't tell me how I feel!" she snapped. "I don't love Ron. I _haven't_ loved Ron since we started dating."

"Bollocks, Granger. You mooned over the wanker whenever he came near."

"Perhaps I did, but I didn't _love_ him."

He looked at her expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

"I just…" She looked away again. "I didn't know how to let go. I kept holding on, even though I shouldn't have."

He shook his head. "That doesn't make it okay."

She nodded. "I know. If I could go back and change things, I would—"

"That's not good enough, Hermione!"

She flinched, and he turned away when he saw the tears form in her eyes. "There's nothing I can say. Nothing will be good enough."

He didn't respond.

"I knew that. And I knew you would have gone on loving me, too—even though nothing would ever be good enough to you."

"But you left me."

"How could I stay? It wasn't fair to either of us to remain in that situation."

"I didn't care."

"It _hurt_ to be that way, Draco. You didn't _expect_ anything of me. You didn't expect anything to _change_."

"I didn't want to get my hopes up for something that wouldn't happen."

"But it _did_, Draco," she told him. "I stopped caring about Ron and you didn't even notice." She smiled, almost sadly. "But f course you didn't." She reached for him, tears falling from her eyes as she stroked his cheek. "You loved me."

He grabbed her hand, holding it within his own as he stared intently into her eyes. "I _love_ you. It won't change."

"Oh, _God_." She shut her eyes, tears leaking from them regardless.

"Granger," he whispered, pulling her to him. "Hermione."

She shook her head. "I can't do this with you, Draco. With everything that's happened between us and the baby—"

He felt pain course through him at the thought of their child. "Why didn't you let me go with you?" he whispered. "I wanted to be there with you."

"Draco," she started.

"I _needed_ to be there with you. I needed the closure, _something_—"

"I didn't do it."

Everything in the world stopped. He looked at her, his heart daring not to beat.

"I-I couldn't. It felt wrong, and I didn't want to, and I kept thinking about what you said." She looked at him insistently. "It's _our_ baby. No reason I gave myself to go mattered. I don't care that you don't trust me or that we're not together. I don't care that you think I don't love you. We can make it work. I _know_ we can." She stopped, waiting for his reaction as she fought to hold back her tears. "Oh, God, Draco, say something. Don't do this to me."

He couldn't. He didn't know what to think or what to say. Something akin to relief was burning within him, but he was too shocked to know how to express it at all.

"I'm glad," he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't want you to."

"_I_ didn't want to. And I know things will be hard, but—"

He placed his hands on her cheeks and kissed her then, quieting her words. He didn't know what to say, but he knew how he _felt_, and the only way he could ever show her was to give her all of his emotions like this.

His eyes were closed, his body positively humming from the warmth the connection sent through him. He didn't think he had ever been this happy in his life, or that he ever would be. Everything else faded into the background, and when she broke away, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, holding her to him while she cried.

"I'm so glad," he said again. "I love you and I'm so fucking glad."

She nodded, pulling away to look at him with teary eyes. "I want to do this, Draco. With you. I love you."

He shut his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers as his breath left his lips in a ragged huff.

"I've wanted to tell you since that night," she continued, "but it seemed so wrong then. But now…" She kissed him again, pressing her lips to his for the briefest of moments before she spoke again. "Everything is different now."

He kissed her again. She squeaked when he picked her up in his arms and carried her through the door.

"I can walk," she said.

"I don't care."

He felt her smile against his neck, and his smiled too, feeling lighter than he'd felt in over a month. He bumped the door shut with his shoulder and carried her through the flat to his bedroom, placing her delicately on the bed.

He took off his coat, then helped her with hers, smiling when she closed her eyes and yawned.

"I'm so tired," she said.

"I know." He began undressing her, unbuttoning her blouse and pushing it away from her shoulders as he stared at her stunning form. "You're so beautiful, Granger."

She plucked him on the nose playfully. "_Hermione_."

He chucked and she smiled, kicking off her shoes and leaning back on the bed so he could undo her jeans. He did so with care, slowly easing them down her shapely legs before throwing them onto the floor. He drank in the sight of her in the early afternoon light.

"I've missed you," he said, almost desperately.

She opened her arms to him. "Then come."

He pulled his jumper over his head, unbuckling his trousers as fast as he could so he could be with her. He was nearly shaking when he finally laid himself atop of her, their underwear the only thing separating them from each other. He wrapped his arms around her back and held her to him, delighting in the sensory overload being so close to her gave him as he smelled her skin and her hair and felt the heat of her blood and her fingers running through his hair.

"I won't fuck it up," he said. "I _promise_. This time is for good."

She agreed. "There's someone more important involved."

He pulled away from her, easing himself down her body and pressing his face against the skin of her tummy. He kissed her belly button, closed his eyes, and breathed as he held her.

"You don't know how important you are," he whispered. "How special—how _lucky_."

Hermione tangled her fingers in his hair and he pressed his face closer to her, wanting to be closer to her and the life they'd created together. She could probably feel his tears against her skin but he didn't care. He wanted to stay there forever, holding this woman close so she'd never leave his side again. Only he didn't have to. She wanted to be next to him; she wasn't going anywhere.

— — — — — —

_Later_

The months would pass by in a blur, filled with laughter and love as Hermione's stomach grew. She was blushing and beautiful in pregnancy, glowing ever more as she got closer and closer to term. Her husband remained by her side, holding her hand as she waddled down the streets of Diagon Alley and as she delivered his son.

"The first of many," he promised her, stroking the boy's blond head.

She smiled. She didn't mind at all.

— — — — — —

_-fin_


End file.
